


Lair

by IAmSmaugLocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Minor Violence, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:14:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmSmaugLocked/pseuds/IAmSmaugLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years since Sherlock's supposed death and Mycroft Holmes is forced to bring his little brother out of hiding at the request of a vicious killer who snaps their victims necks before nailing flowers and a handkerchief to the corpses hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lair

"Wait here Inspector, and try not to do anything stupid!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder in Lestrade's general direction as he ran towards the building.

-

Three years almost to the day since the supposed death of Sherlock Holmes, who was of course very much alive unbeknownst to all but a few, when Mycroft Holmes had been forced to bring Sherlock back to to London to assist the Scotland Yard with a mysterious string of murders. Bodies had been begun popping up around London a few months earlier. Each victim was seemingly unconnected, men and women, cat lovers and dog lovers, youth and elders, (no children), black and white. All the murders were committed in the same fashion, quickly with no physical harm (other than death of course) to the victims. Necks snapped and then a white handkerchief nailed to their left hand and a bouquet of wild bluebells nailed to their right.

It wasn't the nature of the murders, nor the fact that none of the victims were in any way connected that forced the elder Holmes brother to contact the younger, Sherlock had been called back because a note had been written on the handkerchief of the most recent murder. "Aldwych Tube station. 9th of January. 21:00 sharp. Sherlock Holmes only."

-

Now as Sherlock ran into the abandoned Tube station he cleared his mind, logging the useful information into his mind palace and getting rid of the useless information. He ran down a flight of stairs, trenchcoat billowing behind him. 8:57pm. How did the murderer know that he was still alive? Only someone who had been privileged that information could know, but it was unlikely that one of his homeless network was the mastermind behind all this. Mycroft Holmes wanted Sherlock as far from London as possible, he wouldn't risk bringing Sherlock back and exposing the fact of Sherlock being alive to Lestrade just to go and kill him.

That left Molly Hooper. Seemingly innocent and sweet Molly Hooper. She was the only one else who know that Sherlock was still alive and the only one with enough of a medical background to know how to kill someone quickly with as little pain as possible.

As Sherlock rounded the second bend he found his path blocked by a mass of corpses, laid out to spell the word "liar". A white handkerchief nailed into each of their left hand and a bouquet of wild bluebells nailed to their right.

"Come now Ms. Hooper, let's put an end to this. No one else needs to be hurt." Sherlock called to the empty darkness. Somewhere above, a clock struck 9. Slowly a figure rounded the corner in front of Sherlock, but remained in the shadows. "Ms. Hooper?" A deep voice chuckled. "No, no dear friend, Molly Hooper had nothing to do with this." The figure stepped carefully out of the shadows and smirked.

"J-John?" Sherlock gasped.

John Watson smiled and held up his hammer. He had forgone his usual jumper and was instead wearing a simple white button up shirt and black dress pants. His nose was broken and his both his eyes were bruised.

"Bet you weren't expecting this, eh Sherlock? After all, why would you? You let me believe you were dead all this time, how could I have sent the message summoning you here unless I knew? But Molly Hooper? Really?"

"I thought- it seemed to be the only logical conclusion," Sherlock tried to explain, the shock having not yet worn off, "you see, Molly Hooper knew I faked my death but you..."

"I WAS LEFT TO BELIEVE YOU WERE DEAD!" John yelled, cutting Sherlock off, hammer waving.

There was an odd glint in his eyes, very un-John and very unsettling. "You know Sherlock, I grieved for you. And once I ran out of tears I thought to myself 'No way Sherlock would ever kill himself. Not really. He's to fond of himself to do that, he'd consider taking his own life a waste. No way would his brother let him die either, Mycroft would also consider Sherlock's death a waste.' This of course led me to believe that you were still alive. I tried to make Mycroft tell me the truth but he refused to speak to me after your funeral. Then it came to me, if I wanted you back, I'd have to bring you back myself." John took a few steps closer to Sherlock, an eerie smile spread wide across his face.

"So you decided to murder people? That was the grand idea how to get me back?" Sherlock said, his wits almost fully returned, but an uneasy air still hanging about.

"Don't you get it Sherlock?" John grinned, gesturing towards the corpses. "Bluebells, like the name of the rabbit from the Moor. The flowers are blue, just like your scarf, the handkerchiefs symbol grief and the white symbolizes innocence. I always new you were innocent." John whispered the last part as he stepped quietly over the human 'A'.

He was now just a few feet away from Sherlock, who stood completely still, hands folded neatly behind his back, bright blue eyes locked with John's greyish blue ones.

"John, please, stop." Sherlock mumbled.

"Stop what?" John whispered back, taking another step closer.

"Just... Stop. I'm back alright? You've killed enough people. Don't kill anymore, everything will be fine as long as you put the hammer down, okay?."

"NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY!! 3 YEARS SHERLOCK!!! 3 BLOODY YEARS!! WOULD IT HAVE KILLED YOU TO SEND A GODDAMMED LETTER? OR TO HAVE MYCROFT GIVE ME A BLOODY PHONE CALL TO TELL ME YOU WERE STILL ALIVE???" John shouted as he made his was closer to Sherlock, stopping only a few steps away, panting slightly, his eyes lit with anger, betrayal and hurt. "I'm so sorry John..." Sherlock muttered, hanging his head and shuffling his feet.

Suddenly he was hit full force by Watson ramming his entire body into Sherlock's and burying his face into Sherlock's chest, wrapping his arms around the detectives waist, crying softly into the purple silk shirt. Sherlock stood for a moment uncertain of what to do, then slowly wrapped his slender arms around his best friend and held him as he wept. The hammer fell to the ground and Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry John, truly I am. I didn't want you to get hurt. That's why I had to jump, I had to disappear. Moriarty was threatening to kill you and the only way to call of his men was to make them all believe I was dead. I couldn't risk sending a letter, or even Mycroft to let you know that I was alive. Even the slightest hint at that and everyone would be put back in danger."

"You still could have found a way to let me know. The call you made before you jumped-"

"Was most likely being monitored. Also, we knew they would be watching for your reactions. If you hadn't acted like I was dead, it wouldn't have been believable."

John pulled away from Sherlock, eyes now red and slightly more puffy. He looked exhausted and beaten. The gleam and rage had now left his eyes and had been replaced by a deep sorrow. "So you're saying that I needed to believe you were dead... So that the rest of the world would to?" John asked, his arms resting limply at his side. "Yes." Sherlock nodded. "There really was no other way John. Believe me, I tried to find one but there wasn't.

John sighed and then turned around facing the bodies. "I'm a dead man now." He stated, staring at the corpses and sighing. "Not if I can help it." Sherlock said, bending down and reaching to pick up the hammer, he then walked over to John and whispered, "Let them try and find us." John turned his head to look at Sherlock face to face as Sherlock grinned, "The game, my dear Watson, is on."


End file.
